The Garden Party (8 page)

‘That was good of you, Claude.' Yewdall beamed at him.

Claude Bonner shrugged. ‘There was a few of us did that; went to the cemetery the day after he was planted. We didn't plan it as a gang, just all acted as individuals, and we didn't buy the flowers anyway, we picked them from the park didn't we? But it's the thought that counts. Wrapped them in a rubber band the posties drop as they do their walk; if you want a rubber band they say all you have to do is walk along the pavement, before too long you see one. So that's what I did, left the house and walked towards the park and before too long I saw a rubber band. Walked into the park and I picked a nice bunch of daffodils and carried them down the road to the cemetery. There were quite a lot of daffodils in the park the day of his funeral and not many the day after. All the lads who had had their ears clipped by Mr Carris and then sent home, they paid their respects to him. Nice old copper he was, Mr Carris, nice old geezer; based at Clapton Road Police Station.'

‘So, Claude,' Penny Yewdall brought the conversation into focus, ‘Desmond Holst aka Ralph Payne?'

‘Yeah, Des or Ralph, two geezers in the same body but not like the lunatics, you know; those split personality types you read about, I don't mean that.' Claude Bonner paused. ‘I mean he was born Desmond Holst and married Pearl Harley, then after that he began to call himself Ralph Payne, like it made some difference to him, and he became a blagger . . . like it made it possible to go ducking and diving with a new name . . . like it made it all right because it wasn't Desmond Holst that was doing it, it was Ralph Payne. Anyway, that pleased his old lady because she didn't want no council workman for a husband, she wanted someone she could visit in prison and that was Des . . . or Ralph, keeping Pearl happy by being a blagger. It gave Pearl street cred and made her family like her and her husband. It was just that sort of clan. Later though, Desmond . . . or Ralph . . . but later he wanted to make honest money, just honest money, so he did that; went against his wife and family and became Desmond Holst, honest Des Holst. Don't know what else I can tell you about him, poor old soul.'

‘You are known to us as a criminal associate,' Tom Ainsclough explained, ‘so anything you can tell us about him will be of interest. Where did you meet?'

‘In the Scrubs; we met when we were in Wormwood Scrubs together. We were cell mates and we just clicked. You know how it can happen that two people meet and they just like each other from the outset?'

‘Yes,' Ainsclough replied, ‘I know exactly what you mean.'

‘Well, that was me and Desmond. He called himself Desmond from the start, only later did I learn of his other handle. He just wasn't up to being a blagger, his heart wasn't in it, just did it to please Pearl, but he did it anyway. We kept in touch and did jobs together, got banged up together. Then, he went on a Government-sponsored bricklaying course and learned the trade, got work and got himself a reputation as a steady hand. Wanted to do it all the time but with a ball and chain like Pearl it wasn't easy for him, not easy at all. Pearl of the Harley crew . . . well, she didn't want no brickie for a husband, not if she was going to walk her manor like she wanted to walk it. So he kept going out on missions with some heavy boys, but no one can walk two paths forever and so one day he was a bricklayer and nothing else . . . and Pearl, well she wasn't happy with that but by then she was well past her sell-by date. Desmond told me she tried to be a cougar, but she was even too old for that so her old horizons came rushing in . . . Sorry I can't ask you to sit down,' Claude Bonner added, ‘there's only two chairs.'

‘Don't worry,' Ainsclough replied with a brief smile.

‘Suppose there is one thing that might interest you. Me and Des went out for a beer one evening, early doors, when all the old gaffers go for a drink before the youth take over the pubs for the night and you can't get a seat or hear yourself think. Anyway, he was full of guilt; he had a wad of fivers and tens in his old sky rocket, but was full of guilt about where he had got it from.'

‘Another job?'

‘Something like that, but something different as well. He was calling himself Desmond full-time by then and had stopped crooking . . . but it was something that upset him badly . . . something that happened when Arnie Rainbird got out after a ten stretch.'

‘Arnie Rainbird?' Penny Yewdall reached for her notebook.

‘You'll have records on him even if you haven't heard of him yourself. Haven't heard of him myself for a while and I like to keep in touch, so he must be keeping his head well down, but that doesn't mean he's tending his racing pigeons.'

‘We'll look him up when we get back.' Yewdall scribbled on her notepad. ‘So what did happen when Arnie Rainbird got out of prison?'

‘This is off the record . . .'

‘Yes.'

‘It didn't come from me,' Claude Bonner began to sound agitated, ‘I won't be signing any statement.'

‘All off the record,' Tom Ainsclough spoke in a calm, reassuring voice, ‘it didn't come from you, Claude.'

‘OK. Well they threw a party for him, didn't they?'

‘Nothing unusual in that.' Yewdall looked puzzled. ‘So why was Desmond upset?'

‘Because it was not just any party, so Desmond said.'

‘What did Desmond tell you about?' Yewdall pressed.

‘That it lasted a full week . . . longer in fact; took in two weekends so Des said. It was held at a big house in Bedfordshire, as much as you can snort, and eat and drink, and they laid on the girls, as was normal when a blagger comes out after a long stretch.'

‘Again . . . it's just the length the party lasted which is unusual, but why was he upset?' Yewdall tapped her pen on her notebook.

‘Well, Des said the girls were cheated. They rounded up the girls from King's Cross, promised to pay them two hundred pounds for a night's work. It was Des that drove the bus that took them up to Bedfordshire . . . He had a public service vehicle licence as well as brickie's cards.'

‘I see,' Ainsclough commented, ‘handy sort of guy.'

‘Yes he was.'

‘A night's work for two hundred pounds,' Yewdall said, ‘that's generous.'

‘Yes, and this was some years ago as well when it had more . . . what's it called, than today?'

‘Spending power?' Yewdall offered.

‘Yes, that's the term. So, according to Desmond they got on the bus, and remember, two hundred pounds for a night's work about seven years ago, well that can buy a lot of quality, so these were the expensive ones, young and slender. About twenty, twenty-five of them, all serious-minded but all eager to earn good money, got on the bus, and then two minders got on . . . and Des starts the journey north, and the girls wonder where they're going and start asking questions and the minders are saying “It's OK, soon be there”, but after a while they start getting worried and one of the minders snarls at them and threatens them with a slap, then they cool . . . but Des said he could begin to smell the fear in the bus.'

‘I've heard of worse,' Yewdall commented. ‘It still doesn't explain why Desmond was as upset as you say he was.'

‘I'll explain.' Claude Bonner looked at the floor as if searching for inspiration or strength. ‘In a nutshell it turns out that the night's work was a week's work.'

‘They stayed for the whole of the party?' Yewdall gasped. ‘So it was two hundred pounds for a week's work? That's cheap for a high-class girl.'

‘More than a week,' Bonner replied, ‘as I said, it included two weekends. The first Friday evening then the next eight days plus the second Sunday up to about seven o'clock . . . and then they got bunged fifty quid.'

‘Fifty pounds!' Yewdall gasped.

‘Yes, so the night's work meant the first evening and then an extra eight and a half days after that and the two hundred quid turned out to be fifty.'

‘So why did they stay?' Yewdall asked.

‘They didn't stay.' Bonner shrugged. ‘They were kept against their will.'

‘Imprisoned!' Yewdall gasped, once again.

‘But there's more.'

‘More?' Yewdall looked at Ainsclough.

‘Seems so . . . it was the attitude of the girls . . . on the way up they were cooperative then they became frightened . . . on the way back they were just quiet, like they'd seen something, so Des said.'

‘Subdued?' Ainsclough suggested.

‘That's a good word for what Des described, they were subdued and as they got off the bus where it stopped they just accepted the fifty quid without a word of complaint, like they were just happy to be alive, so Des said. He said they all seemed like they just wanted to get home, and have a long, hot shower.'

‘How were they kept against their will?' Yewdall pressed, feeling herself growing more and more angry. ‘Locked in a room?'

‘They had their clothes taken from them, so Des told me, no clothes and no shoes. You see, Des was just the bus driver, not invited into the house. He had to spend the whole time by the bus, sleeping in it, using the toilet in the coach . . . had his food brought out to him. He was the guy in the coach and all these flash cars around him, Rollers, Mercs, Range Rovers, Porsches . . . but he never saw anything of the party. But one night one of the girls walked out of the front door, just opens it and walks out, that's when Des knew they'd taken their clothes and shoes. The drive was long, covered in rough gravel, the girl wasn't escaping, she just wanted a bit of time to herself. She sat with Des and they had a fag together. She didn't tell Des anything but she said that there was an old brass in there keeping the girls in line . . . and this girl had a right shiner.'

‘A black eye?' Ainsclough pressed. ‘You're not telling us something . . . come on, Claude, you're doing well, don't string us along.'

‘I'm scared of Pearl; she has very heavy connections, so this didn't come from me.' Bonner looked at Ainsclough.

‘Agreed,' Tom Ainsclough replied reassuringly, ‘fully agreed.'

‘Yes,' Yewdall replied, ‘also fully agreed.'

‘Well, the last time I saw Des . . . we went out for a beer and he got depressed . . . and said something about “them having a bad end”.'

‘Them?' Ainsclough repeated.

‘Yes, governor, “them”, so more than one.'

‘OK.'

‘And then he said, “they should get a proper burial . . . eventually”.'

‘Should, as in the sense that they deserved a proper burial?' Ainsclough queried, ‘Or should in the sense that with a bit of luck they will get a proper burial?'

‘I thought the second way, guv.' Bonner ran his stubby fingers through his unkempt hair. ‘Least, I took it to mean that . . . that's what it sounded like.'

‘As if he had done something to ensure that they would get a proper burial?' Ainsclough clarified.

‘That's what I thought he meant by the way he said the word “should” . . .' Bonner paused. ‘He also said he had to keep the boxes hidden in the garden shed until the wet weather came. Dunno what he meant by that, guv.'

‘And it was connected to the party?' Ainsclough asked.

‘Yes, certain. Des was talking about the party and then said “they should get a proper burial”, as though he had done something to make sure of it. I didn't press him. So something bad happened at that party. Des ran a bus load of high-cost brasses from the King's Cross meat rack up to Bedfordshire, then ran them back a week later with all of them too scared to complain . . . and some geezers would get a proper burial some time in the future.'

‘But Desmond saw nothing?'

‘That's what he said, so it was like part of his gofering meant he had a mess to clean up, like bodies to get rid of . . . but something definitely went down at that party; something really, really heavy went down at Arnie Rainbird's getting out party.'

John Shaftoe pulled the anglepoise arm downwards so that the microphone attached to the end of it was level with his mouth. ‘Damn Dykk,' he muttered. ‘Damn the man.'

‘Sorry?' Harry Vicary stood against the wall of the pathology laboratory wearing disposable green paper coveralls with matching hat and slippers.

‘Oh . . . nothing . . . nothing.' Shaftoe half turned to Vicary. ‘It seems that Dykk has just taken against me. I don't mean “just” in the sense of recently, I mean “just” in the sense that there seems to be no reason for his hostility.'

‘I see, sir,' Vicary replied, ‘such things happen in all work places.'

‘I suppose, but with Dykk it's just plain snobbery if you ask me. He took an instant dislike to me from day one. A working-class, pigeon fancying coal miner's son from Yorkshire just can't became a doctor . . . not in his hospital anyway. He's a tall guy and one of his little tricks is to push the microphone up out of my reach after he completes his post-mortems . . . but he is the learned professor of pathology here and I am not, so it is what it is and it is the way of it.' Shaftoe paused. ‘Now, dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones,' Shaftoe hummed gently to himself in an attempt to lift the gravity of the pathology laboratory, but Shaftoe's attempt at humour only seemed to succeed in making the pathology laboratory assistant, Billy Button, tremble and whimper, not, thought Vicary, unlike a dog which wants something. If there ever was a man more ill-suited to his job, Vicary further thought, it was the quivering, slight figure of Billy Button.

‘Not to worry, Billy, you won't end up like this.' Shaftoe smiled at the whimpering figure and once again Vicary observed Shaftoe extending more acceptance, more sympathy, more solace to the wretched Billy Button than he could ever muster. The small and retiring Button was, Vicary thought, more suited to pushing a lawnmower for whichever London borough he lived in, or some other lowly occupation. Watching Billy Button in the pathology laboratory, Vicary always felt, was akin to watching a claustrophobic in a coal mine or an agoraphobic in the middle of the tundra.